


Business before pleasure

by ravenclawsquill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Draco, Draco Malfoy in Glasses, Draco's sharp suit, Feelings, Groping, Harry's embarrassing outbursts, Harry's leather jacket, M/M, Public Hand Jobs, Quick and Dirty Sex, Rimming, Stubble, Suggestion of switching, Top Harry, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawsquill/pseuds/ravenclawsquill
Summary: Harry means to go slowly, he really does, but it just isn’t an option. Sex with Malfoy is always quick and dirty, and this is no exception. He drives his cock into Malfoy’s arse over and over again, as hard as he can, until Malfoy’s clutching at the coat hooks on the back of the door, his usual eloquence lost to a litany of broken whimpers.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/gifts).



> This fic was written as a birthday gift for my dear friend, [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/profile). I hope you have a wonderful day, lovely!
> 
> Beware, this fic is unbeta'd. If you spot any errors, I'd love for you to drop me a line at ravenclawsquill@gmail.com so I can fix them.

Harry stumbles into the Headmistress’s Office, panting heavily. He’s running late, as usual, though he can’t help but feel that whoever made the decision to hold the Hogwarts Trustee meetings in a different room each time is as much to blame for it as he is. By the time he found the correct dungeon for last month’s meeting, the official business had almost been over.

“Come, Mr Potter, take a seat. You really must make more of an effort to be on time,” McGonagall admonishes from the head of the long wooden table which has temporarily filled the open space in front of her desk.

Harry’s heart sinks as he scans the room, searching for a seat. Every single place is occupied … except for the one right next to the one person he can’t possibly sit beside for the next hour and a half. Right next to _him_. Harry briefly considers running back out the way he came.

“Mr Potter!” McGonagall’s stern voice cuts sharply through his panic. “You have already disrupted this meeting. Kindly stop dithering and take a seat!”

“Sorry Headmistress.” Harry scurries over to the vacant chair and sinks into it, cheeks burning. He very deliberately avoids looking over to his right as he shrugs awkwardly out of his battered leather jacket and takes out his notes.

When he’s finally settled, McGonagall nods, clears her throat, and resumes running through the meeting’s agenda.

Harry watches her intently, doing his best to look studious and attentive. For the briefest moment, he allows himself to hope that this will be okay. It’s a foolish thought, though: barely five seconds later, his neighbour leans in and the torture begins.

“Keeping us all waiting again, Potter? Tsk, how selfish,” Malfoy whispers, his trademark cocky smirk on view for all to see. “And you’re usually so very considerate…”

Harry’s skin prickles as Malfoy’s cool grey eyes rake over him; he’s suddenly incredibly self-conscious of his scruffy appearance. Last week was a busy one in the Auror Office, what with five new cases landing on the same day, and it’s safe to say that the late nights have got the better of him. He overslept so badly this morning he didn’t even have time to shave, and his cheeks are consequently rough with a heavy scruff of stubble. As for his clothes … laundry has been right at the bottom of Harry’s list of priorities, so his options this morning were limited to a tatty pair of jeans and a crumpled red t-shirt. He was in such a hurry that he didn’t even notice the strange brown stain on the sleeve until he’d left the house. All in all, it’s an extremely casual look, even for Harry.

Then again, Malfoy doesn’t look particularly disgusted. There’s a heat behind the humour in his eyes that makes Harry’s stomach twist in anticipation. Harry chances a quick look at his tormentor, intending only to glance, but he quickly finds himself staring.

Malfoy, as ever, looks impeccable. He doesn’t have a single white-blond hair out of place, and the razor-sharp lines of his perfectly tailored suit are visible even whilst seated. The bastard is even wearing a waistcoat. Harry can’t help but feel that he’s showing off; it’s Saturday morning, after all.

At the head of the table, McGonagall clears her throat, jolting Harry out of his daze with a lurch like the pull of a portkey. “Now, if I may draw your attention to the Minutes of last month’s meeting,” she says, gesturing to the bundles of documents on the table in front of each Trustee.

Harry picks up his pack of paper and begins to shuffle through it. Frustratingly, the documents are all mixed up. By the time he finds the right page, the edges are dog-eared and crumpled, and McGonagall has already started speaking.

Malfoy, meanwhile, has no such trouble; apparently _his_ papers are in perfect order. After watching Harry’s struggle with great amusement, he plucks the correct sheet out right away, before reaching into his jacket pocket...

_Oh god._

Malfoy takes out his reading glasses. Harry’s mouth goes dry at the sight of them. They’re wire-framed and incredibly delicate, with impossibly thin lenses – nothing like Harry’s own. He watches, captivated, as Malfoy opens each arm and puts them on, apparently oblivious to the effect he’s having on Harry.

The fragility of the glasses set against the stark angles of Malfoy’s cheekbones raises an animalistic need in Harry. He’s overcome by a ferocious urge to shove Malfoy from his seat, drag him down to the floor and rut against him; to fuck him into the floor until he’s writhing helplessly, begging for mercy as the rest of the room fades into background noise.

Harry bites back a sigh and shifts awkwardly in his seat. This won’t do at all: he’s mortifyingly hard already and Malfoy’s barely even looked at him.

As if sensing Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy chooses that moment to glance back over at him. His eyes flit from the flush at Harry’s neck to his bottom lip, which is trapped firmly between his teeth. His smirk widens and he raises a knowing brow which lets Harry know exactly what’s going to happen when the meeting is over.

Flustered, Harry looks quickly away in favour of staring down at his copy of the Minutes. It’s no use, though: he can feel his traitorous blush creeping up his cheeks, all the way up to the tips of his ears.

It all started with a fight. How else, given their history? In a way, Harry supposes it was inevitable that their clashes would eventually result in something extraordinary. He certainly hadn't foreseen _this_ , though.

Harry’s first year on the Hogwarts Board was characterised by failure. Every single proposal he put forward, from extra-curricular activities to work experience programmes, was turned down by Malfoy on account of the cost. If he’d known Malfoy was the Treasurer, he probably wouldn’t have agreed to become a Trustee in the first place.

By the end of Harry’s fourth quarterly board meeting, he’d had enough. When the meeting ended, he’d led Malfoy down into the grounds to confront him: to ask how many more proposals were going to be rejected based on his ridiculous personal vendetta. It didn’t go well. 

Malfoy had decided that Harry was calling his integrity into question, which led to a blazing row outside Hagrid’s hut. Shouting turned to shoving, which somehow turned into furious snogging – and the snogging was just the start. Their spat had ended with Malfoy sinking to his knees and giving Harry a spectacular blowjob right there in the Pumpkin Patch. It was quick and clumsy, almost feverish, and it had led to one of the best orgasms of Harry’s life. 

To this day, Harry isn't sure which of them started it, but he’s incredibly grateful that it happened. The memory of Malfoy’s smart suit afterwards, muddied at the knees, still occupies the top spot among his favourite fantasies.

They’ve had an arrangement ever since, and though their meetups have gradually become more predictable, they’re never any less intense.

Finding somewhere private to have their fun is getting increasingly difficult, though. From the Restricted Section of the Library to countless abandoned classrooms, Harry and Malfoy have been doing a fine job of working their way through everything Hogwarts has to offer. Last time, the castle had been teeming with people and, after a couple of false starts at the top of the Divination Tower, they’d resorted to ducking into Filch’s dusty supply cupboard. It had been interesting, to say the least.

The secrecy surrounding the arrangement is probably unnecessary: Harry’s divorce is a distant memory and Draco is over five years widowed, now. Still, Draco’s hesitant to expose Scorpius to gossip and Harry doesn’t want to make school life any more difficult for Al and James than is strictly necessary.

Besides, the clandestine nature of their meetings is part of the thrill. It makes up for the interminably dull Board Meetings which precede them.

This meeting is no exception: even the thrill of Malfoy’s presence isn’t enough to stop Harry’s eyes from glazing over as Professor Flitwick begins to outline the latest proposed changes to the curriculum. 

Harry’s just falling into a comfortable stupor when Malfoy’s hand settles on his knee. He almost leaps out of his seat with the shock of it, and only just manages to contain his yelp of surprise. He whips his head round to look at Malfoy, but he’s just watching Flitwick intently, as though he can think of nothing more entertaining than the First Year Charms curriculum.

His hand, however, is another matter entirely. He inches his fingertips along Harry’s thigh, all the way to the very top, then squeezes firmly. 

_Shit._

From that moment, the game is on. Malfoy’s poker face remains perfectly in place as he takes his time kneading Harry’s thigh, stroking firm muscle through denim, before his fingers finally creep over to the left by one inch, two … and settle firmly over Harry’s cock.

If Malfoy’s earlier teasing was uncomfortable, then this is surely a form of torture. Harry’s been hard since the moment Malfoy took out his reading glasses, and his casual touch is making matters considerably worse. He desperately tries to fight the urge to shift his hips forward in his seat; to push against Malfoy’s fingers as they ghost over his prick, featherlight. 

All the while, he studiously avoids looking down. He knows he won’t be able to handle the sight of Malfoy’s hands on him in such a public setting. _Malfoy’s hands._ The man has the best hands Harry’s ever seen. Long, slim, _flexible_ fingers that look perfect wrapped around Harry’s cock, and feel even better buried deep in his arse, what with Malfoy’s uncanny ability to hit Harry’s prostate with every single movement.

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat at the memory of the things Malfoy has done to him. His eyes fall shut as Malfoy strokes him through his jeans, cupping him … it’s not enough, not even close: he needs more.

“ _Please!_ ” Harry chokes out, forgetting for a moment where he is.

Malfoy’s hand is gone in an instant, leaving Harry hard and wanting as fourteen pairs of eyes swivel round to look at him. Horror surges through his veins, cold as ice, swiftly followed by a sick wave of dread.

“What was that, Mr Potter?” McGonagall asks, her brows drawn together in a disapproving frown.

Harry thinks fast, fighting a dizzying rush of adrenaline. “Um. Please, I wanted to present my revised proposals for funding the Quidditch Scholarship.”

The glare McGonagall gives Harry is so withering he’s surprised it doesn't turn him to stone. “That’s all very well, but Professor Longbottom is trying to tell us about his Spectacular Seeds scheme!”

“No, it’s fine,” Neville says, though he looks a little dejected. “I’d nearly finished, anyway.” He puts away his paperwork and looks at Harry expectantly.

“Right. Erm, thanks Neville. Sorry … I’m just pretty excited about it.” Harry knows he’s babbling, and makes a mental note to apologise to Neville properly as soon as he can. Perhaps he’ll stop by later in the week for a catch-up … but that’s a decision to be made later, not when the entire Hogwarts Board is scowling at him, appalled by his rudeness. The only exception is Malfoy, who isn't even attempting to hide his infuriatingly smug grin.

Harry takes a deep breath and launches into his new ideas for covering the cost of providing high-quality brooms to talented students. His presentation isn’t nearly as smooth as when he practiced it in the shower earlier this week: Malfoy’s unsettled him too much. The way he watches, all fire, does nothing to combat the fuzzy feeling in Harry’s head – or his uncomfortable erection.

Once Harry’s presentation is over, the rest of the meeting passes in a blur. Malfoy’s hand doesn’t return to its position on Harry’s thigh, but that hardly matters: Harry’s skin is still hot from the slow burn of arousal, and his mind continues to reel with thoughts of what’s to come.

Harry’s so caught up in his fantasies that when the meeting finally ends and people begin to shift in their seats, it takes him a moment to register what’s happening. As he reaches out to gather his pack of paperwork, Malfoy stands smoothly beside him and slips a folded scrap of parchment onto the top of the pile before stalking out of the room.

Harry’s stomach jolts with excitement. Self-control has never been one of his strengths, but he stays in his seat and counts slowly to ten, looking furtively around the room. Once he’s sure that nobody saw Malfoy pass the note, he opens it eagerly.

_Meet me at the Hog’s Head. Room 6._

Harry frowns. This is a first: they’ve never booked a room before. He’s certainly had no intention of complaining, though: it’ll be nice to have a bit of genuine privacy. Perhaps they’ll even be able to take their time, for once.

Harry hurries to gather his things, stuffing them roughly into his battered satchel. Before he can get up, though, Headmistress McGonagall appears beside him.

“Harry, do you have a moment? There are a few matters I’d like to clarify on your Quidditch scholarship proposals.”

Harry’s heart sinks: he knows from experience that ‘a moment’ with McGonagall can easily turn into a two-hour grilling. He climbs awkwardly to his feet, holding his battered leather jacket in front of him to conceal the bulge in his jeans.

Despite his better judgement, he makes a snap decision. He’s been waiting too long, already: he can't risk Malfoy getting bored and leaving.

“I’m really sorry, Headmistress, but I have an important meeting to get to and I really can’t afford to be late. Can I pop by to discuss it next week?”

Without waiting for an answer, Harry turns and flees. He all but runs out of the castle and through the grounds, not daring to slow down until he’s reached the bottom of the hill into Hogsmeade.

~*~*~*~

Harry’s grateful to find the Hog’s Head completely empty except for one lonely goat by the fireplace. Even the bar is vacant, leaving him free to slip upstairs, unseen.

When Harry finally reaches Room 6, he finds the door unlocked. He takes a steadying breath before opening it to reveal Malfoy lounging on the bed, looking utterly bored.

Malfoy’s taken off his jacket, but the rest of his clothes are still in place, as pressed and pristine as ever. “I was starting to think you’d got lost,” he drawls as Harry steps inside and shuts the door.

“Nope. McGonagall caught me just as I was leaving. I gave her the slip, but…” Harry trails off. Malfoy isn't here to listen to him babbling on about their old Professor. He gestures vaguely around the room. “What’s the occasion?” he asks, trying desperately to keep his tone casual. 

Malfoy shrugs. “I figured it was high time we made use of a bed. I’m too old to be fucking in Filch’s supply cupboard. I couldn't walk right for a week after last time and I’m sure I still have a smudge of that permanent colour-changing ink on my arse.”

Harry makes a mental note to check. “Fair point,” he concedes.

Malfoy smirks as he gets up off the bed and stalks over to where Harry’s standing by the door. “Besides, it’s a little less obvious than ducking in and out of empty classrooms – and after this morning’s little display, I can see you need all the help you can get on that front. I know I’m irresistible, but begging during a board meeting? It’s not exactly subtle, is it?”

Harry cringes. “Perhaps it’d be easier to keep things subtle if you didn’t insist on practically wanking me off right there in front of the entire Board.”

Malfoy’s right in front of him, now. He leans in until their lips are almost touching, so close Harry can feel his breath. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love it, Potter.”

Harry opens his mouth to deny it, but his lips are swiftly caught in a searing kiss. Malfoy’s kisses are unlike any others Harry has experienced; he kisses Harry fiercely, almost violently – as if he wants to devour every inch of him. Malfoy’s wonderful hands roam over Harry’s body as they kiss, pushing Harry’s t-shirt up and running along his sides, scratching at his back and pinching his nipples until Harry’s panting helplessly, hopelessly lost to lust.

Less than a minute passes before they both need more. Harry turns Malfoy around and pushes him roughly against the door, biting and sucking at the nape of his neck. Strands of white-blond hair tickle Harry’s nose, and he’s sure he’s going to mark Malfoy’s delicate skin, but that hardly matters right now.

He unfastens Malfoy’s belt and trousers and lets them drop, enjoying the swish of fine fabric as they fall to the floor. The kinky bastard isn’t wearing any underwear, and when Harry pushes his shirt tails up, there is, indeed, a smudge of cerulean on his left arse cheek. 

The reminder of their last encounter is a tipping point for Harry: it’s suddenly all too much. He drops to his knees without a second thought and buries his face in Malfoy’s arse, delighting in the strangled sound of surprise which escapes Malfoy’s lips.

Harry doesn't do this with anyone else; only Malfoy brings out this side of him. The filthy eroticism of the act makes his head spin, and in no time at all he’s moaning into Malfoy’s arse, licking and sucking the most intimate part of his body.

The taste of him, skin and musk; the way he shamelessly grinds back against Harry’s face; the desperate sounds he’s making – low, needy moans as if he’s half-mad with pleasure … this is exactly what Harry needs. He digs his fingertips into Malfoy’s arse cheeks and holds him open, exposing him further, before pushing the very tip of his tongue into the tight grip of Malfoy’s hole.

“Fucking hell, Potter, _yesssssss_ …”

Malfoy’s hole twitches against Harry’s lips, as if his body’s begging for more, and Harry’s all too happy to give it. He licks slow, rhythmic circles around Malfoy’s sensitive rim, taking in every glorious reaction: the way Malfoy’s knees are starting to shake, the beads of sweat forming at the small of his back, the desperate groans and grunts he makes as he chases his climax in earnest.

The sounds are too much for Harry; the need to touch himself is overwhelming. He lets go of Malfoy’s arse with his right hand, clumsily unfastens his jeans and begins to stroke his own prick in time with the movements of his tongue. 

It’s not the best idea he’s ever had. He’s too wound up; it feels too good, too distracting, taking away from his technique to the extent that Malfoy’s moans of pleasure are quickly replaced by groans of frustration.

After just a few blissful strokes, Harry reluctantly lets go of his prick and reaches up to grab Malfoy’s arse again, improving his access and earning a ragged sigh of relief. This time he goes a step further; he pushes his tongue as far into Malfoy’s arse as he can. He feels the tight ring of muscle clench around him, and Malfoy promptly falls apart.

“M–more, you bastard! I swear, if you don't fuck me right now, I'll— _ohhhhhhh_ …”

Harry knows better than to tease Malfoy past breaking point. He pauses only to dig the bottle of lube out of his back pocket, then carries on, eagerly flicking the tip of his tongue across Malfoy’s twitching hole as he liberally slicks his fingers.

Malfoy's steady stream of threats dissolves into a long, low moan as Harry gives his arse one last lick, then pulls back and breaches him with two fingers. He’s loose and wet from Harry’s tongue, and they slip in all the way to the knuckle without resistance. 

Harry knows from experience that Malfoy likes it rough, but he needs to make sure he’s truly ready. He fucks Malfoy slowly with his fingers, scissoring them carefully to stretch him.

Malfoy’s apparently feeling impatient, though. He shifts awkwardly above Harry, stepping out of his trousers and spreading his legs wide. “What are you waiting for?” he growls. With the way he’s standing, Harry no longer has any idea.

Harry always means to suggest switching, asking for Malfoy to fuck _him_ , for once, but the sight of Malfoy’s arse, offered up like this for the taking, always makes him forget. He climbs clumsily to his feet and lines himself up, nudging the head of his cock between Malfoy’s arse cheeks, pressing against his sensitive hole.

“Ready?”

“Yes, I’m fucking ready!” Malfoy snarls. “Now get the fuck on with it!”

Harry begins to inch forward gently, but as he does so, Malfoy pushes back against him, hard, causing Harry’s prick to slide all the way into his body, startlingly fast. Harry’s eyes fall shut against the onslaught of pleasure; Malfoy’s arse is slick and so very warm, and Harry really doesn’t know how he managed to wait three months since last time.

“ _Fuck_ , so tight…” he groans, his voice barely recognisable to his own ears.

“Potter! _Move!_ ” Malfoy hisses.

Harry means to go slowly, he really does, but it just isn’t an option. Sex with Malfoy is always quick and dirty, and this is no exception. He drives his cock into Malfoy’s arse over and over again, as hard as he can, until Malfoy’s clutching at the coat hooks on the back of the door, his usual eloquence lost to a litany of broken whimpers. The door rattles against its frame with each frantic thrust, threatening to give way at any moment, but that isn’t enough to deter Harry now he’s finally where he needs to be.

He reaches around Malfoy’s hips and takes his cock firmly in hand. The way his breath hitches confirms Harry’s suspicions: he’s close. It’s just as well; Harry doesn’t stand a chance of lasting much longer, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make Malfoy come first.

“Come for me,” Harry growls, running the tip of his thumb over Malfoy’s sensitive slit. “Draco, come for me.”

Perhaps it’s good timing; perhaps it’s the use of Malfoy’s given name, but a moment later, Malfoy gives a soft gasp of relief as his prick pulses against Harry’s fingers, spilling his release over the back of the door. His arse clenches and releases around Harry’s cock, drawing sounds from Harry’s lips which are more animal than human.

It only takes three or four deep thrusts before Harry’s coming too, muffling his moans in the crumpled fabric of Malfoy’s waistcoat as his orgasm tears through him. This was worth the wait, worth every bit of teasing. It’s times like these where Harry feels most alive; his whole body thrumming with wave after wave of pleasure, his cock buried deep in Malfoy’s arse.

They stand, motionless, waiting for the aftershocks to subside. When the pleasure finally ebbs, Harry pulls out carefully and steps back, giving Malfoy some space to pull his trousers up.

Back when their arrangement first began, the aftermath used to be horribly awkward. It’s improved over time, though; these days, it only takes a couple of minutes for them to revert back to their usual banter.

Malfoy steps away from the door and strides over to the tiny window. He tugs at the tails of his shirt, pulling the crumpled fabric back into position. “Not bad, Potter. Not bad at all.” He makes a show of looking through the dusty panes. “I suppose I’ll see you after the next board meeting?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Harry agrees, though he can’t help but feel that three months is far too long to wait. A feeling of recklessness sweeps over him, and he acts upon it before his nerves can get the better of him. “Or, you know … we could meet up sooner. Three months is quite a while, after all…”

Malfoy turns to face him, an uncharacteristic look of surprise on his sharp face. He takes his time weighing up the suggestion, fastening his trousers and belt so slowly Harry’s sure it’s a delaying tactic. 

The silence is excruciating; Harry’s guts writhe with embarrassment as the seconds tick by. Just as he’s about to tell Malfoy to forget it, the blond nods slowly. “I’ll owl you,” he murmurs. 

Harry’s heart leaps in his chest. “Sounds good,” he says breathlessly as he pulls up his jeans. “Maybe next time we’ll actually make it to the bed.”

Malfoy smirks. “I wouldn’t count on that.”


End file.
